


On the Rag

by thequidditchpitch_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Comedy, Explicit Sexual Content, Friendship, Post-Hogwarts, The Quidditch Pitch: Leaving Feast
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-19
Updated: 2006-12-05
Packaged: 2018-10-26 10:29:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10785018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequidditchpitch_archivist/pseuds/thequidditchpitch_archivist
Summary: Once a month the men in Hermione's life become 'Dicks'. Not everything in the future is perfect. (Author's note: This story is set post Voldemort, and assumes that the final battle left the Trio with a strong sense of empathy between them.)





	1. On The Rag

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

On the Rag

by alloy (Beta: Sandy)

(With apologies to all the ladies)

 

I wake up feeling sick, nauseous. 

The naked, red haired giant next to me sleeps blissfully on. He's a prat.

My stomach is bloated, my breasts hurt, and I need to get to the bathroom before there's an embarrassing accident. Well embarrassing for me, my ‘dick’ probably wouldn't notice, and neither would the other.

Fuck It! I didn't buy any.

I try to shake him awake,

"Ron! Ron!"

"...Mione," he reaches for me, and I slide away; there'll be none of that today!

"Get up you pillock! I need you to go to the store."

"Mione, I feel awful."

"I don't care! You should have thought of that before you drank yourself into a stupor last night."

"It was only two, and we were home early," he protests. Well I think he doth protest too fucking much!

A cramp in my stomach tells me I need to hurry this up.

"Listen you prat, I need you to Apparate to the store..."

"Why can't you Apparate to the store? My tummy hurts." 

"Because I can't Apparate right now, and it'll be more than your fucking tummy that'll be hurting if you don't."

A box lands on the bed between us. The other ‘dick’ is standing in the doorway; at least he's not grinning. In fact, he looks a bit queasy, too. Good! The conceited shit even knows what brand I buy. Let him feel queasy. 

"I'll make breakfast," he says and goes through to the kitchen.

My ‘dick’ sees the box; his eyes widen, “Oh shit,” he says, and stands up. He's naked with an erection. I'm not impressed; it's pisshard, though I normally like to refer to it as his morning glory. 

Not this morning mate.

Shit! He's trying to get to the loo before me. I ignore the cramps and make a dash for it, slamming the door in his face.

Lucky for me he's still half-asleep.

"Mione, I need the loo."

"Use Harry's." Harry's is actually the main bathroom; ours is en suite, and we normally share. 

I hear the other toilet flush, and the sound of the shower. I wait another three minutes and flush mine...

"FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCKKKKK!"

I feel much better, and they wondered why I read the plumbing book.

Harry's made toast. He's actually a good little cook for a ‘dick’; better than me, but toast is about all we can handle this morning.

There's juice next to our plates, and he puts a brown tablet down in front of me.

"Iron," he says.

Arsehole! I love him.

My ‘dick’ comes into the kitchen; he's wearing jeans, but he hasn't put on his shirt. His shoulders are bright red; I can hardly see the freckles. He sits down and keeps quiet.

Wise move. The poor dear's tummy does look a bit bloated.

None of us exactly climb into our toast.

The other ‘dick's’ done his best, though. He's remembered my favorite jam; keeps it hidden in the back of cupboard, thinks I don't notice, for days like today. I'm a cunt today; I'll thank him tomorrow.

He drops two white tablets on my plate, "For the cramps." I just growl at him. Swallows two himself when I'm not looking, and puts the bottle down near my ‘dick's’ plate. 

"Mmmm, Mione," he talks. Hurrah! He talks… now if he would just learn to talk without his ruddy mouth full!

"We've got Quidditch practice this afternoon, do you think you could..." he doesn't finish sentence.

"Cook?" The ‘dick’ behind me is doing animated throat slashing motions. I can see his reflection in the kitchen tiles.

"Come on," he says, "It's Friday, lets do.... Pizza." All our stomachs lurch.

By teatime I've told Arthur Weasley at least five times what a useless prat his youngest son is. He came into the office looking a bit wary. As far as I know, I've been in sync with Molly and Ginny for at least five years now…. so he was forewarned. 

The Weasley's are the closest thing to real family that Harry has, so I give him a few choice words about the other ‘dick’ too.

Arthur's an old hand, he rolls with the punches, but I heard him order take-out for dinner.

The new intern thinks I'm about to be fired, but Arthur Weasley's never fired anyone in his life, and he's not about to fire his only chance at grandchildren. The only chance at least until Ginny gets off her sweet little red fanny and shags Harry's balls off. Frankly it'll solve half my problems, though I'd like to keep him around to cook.

That new intern thinks he's God's gift to witches. He had better watch out, though; if Ron catches him looking at me like that, he'll be drinking pea soup through a straw.

The cramps come back at lunchtime, so I check my lunch box; two little pills are tucked away amongst the digestive biscuits. Fuck Ginny, I'm keeping Harry as a House Elf. He'll look cute in a tea towel.

Mr. 'wonderful' slinks over and I try to catch a glimpse of his school ring. Ah, Slytherin- that explains a lot. 

He peers into my lunch box, "Not very appetizing," he says.

I give him the stare that made Draco Malfoy wet his pants. This one's not as bright as Malfoy.

"When, one's lunch has been prepared with love…" With love, but not by my lover, "It behooves one to eat It." That's right, and those little pills are going to be first! 

"Let me take you to Le Petit Café. Its a little Muggle establishment...."

Hell no, and get interrogated about marriage plans and babies.

"Where Mr. Weasley is having lunch with my father.”

I grab the pills and chug them with a glass of water. The twit's still hanging around, dense as hippogriff shit. I need to end this; he's beginning to seriously annoy me.

"Listen,” I say. "My fiancé and his best friend are currently in practice with the Chudley Cannons, and afterward, they're meeting me here. If you're still there," I point to his feet and the floor beneath, "I suggest you book your bed in St Mungo's this afternoon."

Of course I didn't tell him that they played for the social team, full of retired players with butterbeer bellies, and a head full of memories and dirty tricks. Quidditch practice, where the other ‘dick’ comes home with a bloody nose and concussion from a failed fucking Wronski Feint, and my ‘dick’ sported a broken rib, making him useless to man or woman for a week, a week during which I had to COOK! 

Ah success! I'd just got him shuffling backward when the pain started. 

It felt as if Hagrid had kicked me in the stomach. The lingering pain that won't go away if you've been hit on a breast or the balls I suppose. I keeled over my desk choking, tears in my eyes. The idiot tried to touch me. He found himself on the other side of the office; didn't even have to hex him, natural reaction. Then there was a searing pain in my arm. I wanted to faint, to succumb to the darkness, but I didn't. I'm a stubborn bitch when I want to be.

Chester Wrigglebody, the Cannon's coach, Apparated into the office. He paused for a moment, stared blankly at the Slytherin git still hanging from the wall partitions and came over to me.

"Hermione! There's been an accident. Ron and Harry are at St Mungo's."

I stepped out of the public fire at St, Mungo's with tears in my eyes. The things I had called them this morning, the dirty trick I played with the shower.... If they had serious been hurt I'd never forgive myself.

I saw Harry first; he was sitting in the corridor with his arm in a sling. That explained the pain in the arm. 

"What happened?" I whisper.

"Fell off my broom," he said, smiling his silly grin.

"What?" Harry was natural flyer, he didn't just fall off his broom; it took Dementors to get Harry off his broom.

"When Ron got hit in the stomach by the bludger." 

"Oooh! So that's what I felt." Fuck and I was feeling so shitty too. If Ron had been cramping half as badly as I was....

"Yeah, bloody sore wasn't it." Then Harry must have been feeling it as well.

"Is he going to be alright?"

"I think so. His tummy's a bit sensitive, it'll be alright tomorrow," he paused, and rested his fingers lightly on my own bloated stomach. "And you?"

"It'll be better tomorrow." 

"First day is always the worse," he said 

Fuck! Harry's sensitive!

They wheeled Ron through then, and I caught the concern in his eyes as he saw Harry's fingers on my tummy. 

"Are you alright, Love?"

Harry moved his hand away to swing at the back of Ron's head. "She'd be a darn sight better without a bludger to the tummy, you git! And so would I!"

Ron ducked and winced, and I pulled up his shirt to see his bruises, and to rub his tummy (didn't really need an excuse for that). 

"You shouldn't have been practicing today," I say, but they wouldn't be the men they are if they hadn't been.

They're ‘dicks’, but they're my ‘dicks’, and tomorrow they might even be human again. And I'll hex any witch who looks at them strangely into tomorrow…except maybe for Ginny. 

Ginny can have Harry, but she'd better hurry. The idea of him in a tea towel is growing strangely appealing.

***

Authors note:

I don't really approve of the term, "On the Rag", but it seemed appropriate. I hope not too many ladies take offense.


	2. Harry

  
Author's notes: (This is obviously all written from Harry’s point of view)  


* * *

You know how it is before it rains- there’s a sense of peacefulness and calm anticipation.  
  
This is nothing like that all.  
  
I wake up early.  
  
I find myself in the fetal position, clutching a pillow to my tummy.  
  
Butterflies? No, caterpillars…spiky caterpillars, crawling up the inside of my stomach.  
  
I glance at the calendar. I know I’m not the only man who does this.  
  
Arthur keeps a calendar is his shed, with little red hearts on the dates. He’s not fooling me; I know what it’s for.  
  
I feel a twinge. She will have forgotten of course. Best I Apparate to the store while I still can.  
  
I arrive in the back alley. It’s a Muggle store, but they stock the brand she prefers.  
  
Bugger!  
  
Spent the last of my Muggle cash in the pub last night. Thank heavens for MasterCard.  
  
The snotty little shop assistant spends a long time examining the goblin on the card, but his machine accepts it.  
  
Asks me if I want to “plain bag” my purchases. He thinks he’s going to embarrass me.  
  
The girl at the till behind him stares at the ceiling and mouths, “Asshole!”  
  
I’m reminded of Seamus Finnigan, who claimed to know whenever any witch was “On the Rag” as he crudely put it. He used his ‘knowledge’ to invoke laughter in the dorm. I never laughed. It just didn’t seem funny when your best friend is in pain.  
  
I contemplate taking some tablets, but they won’t work; I’m not the one who needs them. I can’t Apparate home now. A walk home will ease the cramps.  
  
As I enter the flat, I hear her asking him to go to the shops. The big dope hasn’t read the signs yet, thinks she’s on at him about a hangover. Thinks he’s got a hangover.  
  
It becomes mission critical when she swears at him, she’ll hex him next, wand or no wand, and then we’ll really be in the shit.  
  
I toss the box on the bed between them. Hermione gives me a look that makes castration seem positively appealing. The penny finally drops for Ron.  
  
I mutter something about breakfast and make a quick getaway.  
  
I know Hermione won the race for the loo when I see Ron padding through to my bathroom.  
  
I've just finished the first lot of toast when I hear Ron scream. I feel the heat in my shoulders; Hermione comes through with a grim smile on her face.  
  
Flushed the loo on his shower. She can be a right bitch on a day like today.  
  
I give her an iron tablet, and get a wan smile in return.  
  
I've saved her favourite Lime and Ginger jam for today; have to hide it from her. She likes to sneak into the kitchen around midnight and polish it off. Seems Ron gives her quite an appetite, most days.  
  
Mr. Sensitivity comes through looking like a lobster; at least he's keeping quiet.  
  
I'm handing out cramp medication all round, when he decides to put his foot in it.  
  
He mentions Quidditch and cooking in the same sentence. I stay behind her, out of the line of fire.  
  
My suggestion of pizza does not go down well, but it defuses the situation.  
  
I hand her a lunch box as she leaves, and I’m rewarded with a kiss on the cheek.  
  
Ron glowers at me; he hasn’t had so much as a pat on the backside. He’ll feel better tomorrow.  
  
Work!  
  
Hexing classes at the Community Centre on Friday.  
  
It’s just as well, I don’t fancy going into the office with Ron today. Normally sharing an office with your best mate is the greatest job in the world. Not this morning.  
  
I scatter cushions around the hall and invite my students to hex themselves into oblivion.  
  
Sit in the corner and try to look like I’m contemplating my navel. It’s all I can do not to deposit my meager breakfast on the floor. That will shatter the Potter mystique.  
  
Nausea doesn’t seem to affect Ron. Claims he hasn’t felt nausea since his slug hex backfired in school. It was stupid of him really; he’s not good with a wand at the best of times, but that wand was held together with sellotape.  
  
I chuckle despite my discomfort. He was too busy vomiting slugs to notice the look Hermione gave him.  
  
She’s probably giving poor Arthur hell right now, about Ron mostly. He probably tiptoed into work today. They say forewarned is forearmed. They’ve never had to deal with Hermione Granger on a day like today.  
  
I hope Ron remembers to give Arthur the yo-yo. He’ll need something for his “Muggle consultant” to examine. Poor Ron, he’s not very comfortable with his dad having lunch with Dennis Granger every Friday.  
  
I send all the fake redheads home, and make a mental note to do something nasty to Fred and George.  
  
Quidditch practice at the Cannons. We just play for the social side, but Ron’s hoping to get noticed by the big boys. Might happen- with Ron and myself, we’ve managed to get to the top of our log.  
  
I’m too distracted to practice properly. I don’t know what Hermione’s thinking, but I have nasty vision of myself standing in front of her dressed only in a tea towel. I hope it gets better tomorrow.  
  
Ron’s not faring any better. He’s getting angry.  
  
Ron’s not the jealous type.  
  
He doesn’t really mind the guys looking at Hermione. In fact, he rather enjoys it. He only really gets angry when they piss Hermione off. And since the person who pisses his ‘Mione off the most is Ron….  
  
But he’s pissed now, and that’s not a good thing. A pissed off wizard who can perform four kinds of death curses with his bare hands.  
  
Ooooooph! A Bludger hits him…us, in the stomach. He fades out of my head, and I’m falling ever so slowly toward the ground. A sharp pain in my arm and blackness swallows me.  
  
I wake up at St. Mungo’s, crying. The nurse (wearing fake red hair!) can’t quite understand it, and checks my pain charms twice before she leaves me alone.  
  
I know she’s on her way. I check on Ron. He’s still unconscious, sporting a monster bruise on his tummy. The doctor says he’ll be fine.  
  
I go into the corridor to wait for Hermione.  
  
She’s still crying when she comes around the corner. The worst is over now; all she’ll need is a shoulder.  
  
“What happened?” she whispers.  
  
“Fell off my broom,” I say.  
  
“What?”  
  
“When Ron got hit in the stomach by the Bludger,”  
  
“Oooh! So that’s what I felt.”  
  
“Yeah!”  
  
Crikey, in her condition it must have felt like, like Hagrid kicking you in the nuts.  
  
“Bloody sore, wasn’t it?”  
  
“Is he going to be alright?” she says  
  
“I think so. His tummy’s a bit sensitive, it’ll be alright tomorrow.”  
  
I gently place my fingers on her stomach, extending my wizard’s senses.  
  
“And you?” I say.  
  
I’m not a healer, but I can sense if something’s wrong. There’s nothing. Nothing that tomorrow won’t fix.  
  
“It’ll be better tomorrow,” she replies.  
  
“First day is always the worst.”  
  
Ever since it began. Ever since she hid from us on that first day. That day she became a woman.  
  
“Are you all right, Love?” Ron says  
  
“She’d be a darn sight better without a Bludger to the tummy, you git!” I take a wild open-handed swing at his head. “And so would I!”  
  
He ducks my hand easily. I feel the bruise ache as he does so.  
  
Hermione lifts up his shirt; she gasps at his bruise and gently rubs his tummy.  
  
She’s rubbing his tummy. That’s a good sign.  
  
She chides us for practicing today, but she’s rubbing his tummy.  
  
We made it through this day.  
  
She’s rubbing his tummy.  
  
Tomorrow will be better.  
  
Why do I keep seeing myself dressed in a bloody tea towel?  
  
***  
  
Still to come: Ron’s Day.


	3. On The Rag : Rons Day  Hope For Tommorrow.

On The Rag : Ron’s Day – Hope For Tommorrow.

By alloy.

I think it’s the pain that wakes me. Then I hear the voice.

I’ll never forget that voice.

_**“Is this your whelp, Potter?”** _

I begin to shake off the darkness that surrounds me.

_**“Have you diluted your lineage further with this Mudblood?”**_ ****  
  
The pain is intense now, in my tummy, and I can see.

I can see Hermione helpless in the grip of two Deatheaters- Voldemort’s wand pointing at her stomach.

“No.” Harry’s voice is weak and distant.

_**“What Potter? No noble defense for your lover?”** _

“No.” My own voice, barely audible.

Voldemort’s wand emits a yellow light, hitting Hermione’s tummy.

The pain grows.

“No,” I whisper. “’ _My baby…_.”

**_“I really can’t let another Potter live.”_ **

Hermione begins to writhe. The darkness returns, but the pain remains…..

"Ron! Ron!"

A wave of relief washes over me, the sort of relief you feel when your mum catches you with your hand in the biscuit jar. That guilt her tone of voice releases.

"Hermione," I reach for her. I need to affirm that she’s here, that she’s real, not some illusion sent to torment me.

“Get up, you pillock! I need you to go to the store."

That sounds real enough. This is our reality, our future; Voldemort is dead, but the pain still hasn’t gone away.

"Hermione, I feel awful."

"I don't care! You should have thought of that before you drank yourself into a stupor last night."

"It was only two, and we were home early." It’s a mistake. I know it’s a mistake, a mistake to argue with my love when she’s in one of her moods.

"Listen you prat, I need you to Apparate to the store..."

Now I’m even more confused.

"Why can't you Apparate to the store? My tummy hurts."

"Because I can't Apparate right now, and it'll be more than your fucking tummy that'll be hurting if you don't."

Hermione swore? Hermione never swears.

A box lands on the bed between us. Harry is standing in the doorway. "I'll make breakfast," he says and goes through to the kitchen.

“Oh shit.” That explains everything, the pain, the nightmare, the tone of Hermione’s voice.

Oh shit, I really said ‘oh shit’ out loud.

Maybe some water in my face will clear my head.

Hermione slams the bathroom door in my face.

“Hermione, I love you.”

"Use Harry's."

Nothing much else to do, really. Harry gives me a sympathetic look as I trudge to his bathroom.

I let the shower water run a bit. When the temperature’s just right, I wait. She’ll do it, I know she will. She’s got a mean streak not many people know about.

The other toilet flushes.

My scream is for effect.

She’ll feel a bit guilty now.

We chomp through our toast. I could do with a spot of bacon and eggs, but neither Harry nor Hermione seem to feel the same way.

Last time I tried to fry up my own, I almost got my bits hexed off, by Harry no less, because Hermione had burst into tears.

"Hermione,” I say. “We've got Quidditch practice this afternoon, do you think you could..." I let my voice trail off, the way Hermione’s looking at me.

"Cook?"

Merlin no! Harry and I share the kitchen pretty well, but Hermione? Hell will freeze over before I let her near my good knives again.

Harry’s making throat slashing motions. I’m not sure what his problem is; I thought Hermione could meet us at the club for supper.

"Come on," he says, "It's Friday, let’s do.... Pizza."

Prat! You’d think your best mate would have more faith in you.

*

A few years ago at the Burrow, my brother, Bill, held an impromptu lecture on ancient Egyptian curses, hexes and traps.

Hermione remembers the whole thing; I bet she’s even got it written in a notebook somewhere.

Fred and George took notes, too, on how to implement them.

I always remembered how to get past them.

The Twins hate being surprised in their own shop- which is why I like to do it.

“You’re too late, Ronnikins,” George sneers. “The Auror harrassment squad were in here yesterday.”

“And?”

“They were after the “Legs Like Rubber” Gum.

“Well,” I say. “If you removed it like I told you to.”

“We did.” Fred’s voice isn’t as appreciative as it could be. “Otherwise we’d be in Azkaban by now.”

“I only told you for mum’s sake. It’s bad enough Percy’s in there.”

They have the grace to look guilty. Percy’s corruption trial hadn’t been pleasant and Mum had taken it hard.

“I want to talk to you about a nasty piece of gossip that’s doing the rounds.”

The twins shrug in unison, so I plough on.

“About Harry having a predilection for ‘red-heads?’”

‘That’s not gossip,” George exclaims, “That’s fact.”

“In fact, Hermione shares the same preferences,” said Fred.

I clench my teeth and count slowly backwards. “And that’s exactly how you put it, you idiots!”

“You’ve got to do something. Everywhere he goes, Harry is being harassed by people with fake red hair.”

An evil cackle fills the shop.

“This is beyond a joke, guys. The Arbor twins left him separate love notes.”

“Maple?”

“Yes, and her brother Mahogany.”

“It seems our dear Harry has a mixed following.”

“It’s not surprising, your gossip implies that Harry and I….”

“That was our intention, brother dear.”

“You didn’t think that Harry and I might have wanted to tell Mum and Dad quietly.”

That shuts them up. For the first time in my entire life I have managed to get one over my brothers. It’s what happens next that surprises me.

“What about Hermione, Ron?”

There’s a seriousness on George’s face that I only remember seeing during the war.

“What about Hermione?”

“Damnit, Ron, she’s a fine woman that deserves the truth.”

“And Ginny, Ron? Harry needs to tell her the truth, too.”

Suddenly I’m presented with an image of Harry dressed in a tea towel. That and the notion that I had finally outwitted the twins allows my own laughter to fill the shop.

The twins scowl and then join me.

*

“Woman troubles won’t keep us from Quidditch.”

It’s a mantra our teammates don’t understand, but one they like to rally behind.

I’m not quite sure how Harry and I make it through practice. Hermione’s cramping something awful and on top of that somebody is pissing her off.

That’s my girl, my ‘Mione. You can look all you want, but don’t make my ‘Mione mad, ‘cause that makes me mad.

Harry tries to calm me down, to get me to focus, to concentrate.

When the bludger hits me in the tummy, I realize that I’m not going to make it through practice after all.

*  
 ** _  
“Is this your whelp, Potter?”_**

**__**_  
_NO!

**_“Have you diluted your lineage further with this Mudblood?”_ **

I won’t let this happen, not now, not ever.

I can see Hermione helpless in the grip of two Deatheaters- Voldemort’s wand pointing at her stomach.

“No.” Harry’s voice is weak and distant.

_**“What Potter? No noble defense for your lover?”** _

**“No!”**

I raise my hands; I don’t need my broken wand with its empty core. I never did.

Voldemort’s wand emits a yellow light hitting Hermione’s tummy.

Deatheaters fall, their hearts still pumping in my bloody hands.

Voldemort was so surprised, he didn’t see Harry raise the sword.

There was never any baby, and for a while we thought there would never be one. Hermione’s cycle was disrupted for six months.

*

“Mr. Weasley… Mr. Weasley, sir. Please, your friends are waiting.”

They wheel me through to the reception. Harry has his fingers on Hermione’s tummy, I know what he’s doing, I do it too, a lot, mostly when she’s sleeping, especially during those six months.

I can feel Harry’s satisfaction; there’s nothing wrong, nothing that won’t fix itself.

Still I ask. “Are you alright, Love?"

Harry moves his hand away to swing at me. "She'd be a darn sight better without a bludger to the tummy, you git! And so would I!"

I ducked and wince, and Hermione pulls up my shirt to see the bruises.

There never was a baby, and we’re still not sure why Voldemort thought there was one.

Perhaps in his final souless moments he caught a glimpse of the world without him. Of the world without blood hatred. Of a world of my children, and Hermione’s, and Harry and Ginny’s.

_Perhaps._

Perhaps it will be better tomorrow.

 


End file.
